


That Same Expression

by orphan_account



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Flashbacks, I am particularly serious about this subject, I tried my best to do justice for this topic and people who have experienced this, M/M, tw: parental abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:39:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1650593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simmons will be brought back vividly, and he'll see those bits. Those jagged memories, the glue pot, his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Same Expression

**Author's Note:**

> grif and simmons make me very emotional  
> so does tuckington (otp!!!!) but *simmons* good god, that man. hope you like??? (◡﹏◡✿) comments are appreciated! they are the highlight of week and let me know what you like/dislike.

Without fail, every Friday, Simmons would cower. He never fancied himself to be this broken so easily, to let words fall from his mouth in repentance. _Please, stop, I didn’t ask for this_ will be repeated in a myriad of ways, he will never know the right structure or pitch, hand gesture, because it will always be wrong. _He_ will always be wrong.

His father will always begin, _well, today was shit._ Simmons will ask to be excused from the table, he wants to go to his room, there’s homework to—

 _No,_ he’ll begin. _You’re not doing well enough. How many times do I have to remind you?_

Simmons will beg. Please, stop, this isn’t—you know I can’t, how many times do I have to explain it?

 _Who do you think you’re speaking to?_ He’ll rise and Simmons will move away, breath fast because he should have known, this is how it always starts, he’ll bait him and blame him for all the mistakes – his mother leaving, his own ineptitude, misgivings.

No, stop, please, is what he chants, again and again, moving away before the fists reach his cheekbones, and then he’ll be in trouble because his glasses will be broken (then he’ll have to find a way to sneak money out and purchase a new pair, when his father doesn’t know whether it’s Saturday or Sunday).

He’ll try shutting doors behind him, asking would mom want this? Please, stop, please.

 _You made her leave, you disgusting fucking piece of shit, it’s your fucking fault,_ he spits, the vitriol claiming the room and Dick’s skin, and he won’t know how to wash himself clean of the hate. It will be a stench to follow him for days, weeks, years, and he won’t forget the words. _I can take away everything you have, you never fucking listen._

Simmons will swallow and _apologise,_ I can do better, I can, you just have to stop _yelling,_ please, please, I will do better, you know I can’t help being bad at sports—

His shoulder is hit, fast and cold — always in spots nobody can see, there’s no sign to outsiders – and he’ll recoil, scared. This is what he faces, sometimes it’s Tuesday, sometimes it’s Monday, sometimes it’s Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday. Simmons is a soldier, on the ready for a battle at all times. He is safe nowhere, where the blaring words find him and the hard hands collide with his back, his shoulder.

He doesn’t forget the lessons — burnt in his mind, unforgiving and unrelenting, the scar tissue never quite mellowing. It’s evident in his pale freckly skin, the skin his father shunned him for, _weak_ and _why can’t you just do better?_

Sometimes it’s not all cusses, sometimes it’s a comment in the evening before he hides away. _You know, you were always strange when you were little, no wonder why you are like you are now,_ or _you’re just like your fucking aunt,_ an aunt he never knew. He wondered what she was like, if maybe she was pale with shaky hands and had prescription glasses, maybe she liked Battlestar Gallactica. He liked to think nice things about her, things that made his father’s words less cutting – maybe she didn’t fit in either, she liked maths, maroon was her favourite colour, maybe she enjoyed Winter when she had an excuse to stay inside.

At times — on very dark days — he’d struggle putting up a front against the storm. I know I’m not good enough, that’s why you should just leave me alone. I’ve tried.

 _You never fucking tried, you never once fucking tried, you fucking complain like a little fucking cunt,_ will be the parting words on a Thursday, the bedroom door slamming behind him like a semi-colon to remind Simmons; _there will be more, just you wait._

There is always more — Simmons can almost time it to the minute, 5:07pm, after Thursdays — always before dinner, when his tie is just loose enough to signal a day complete but the hangover of stress and anger is present. The words are the same, the meaning lost long ago now the saliva flows through the air. Simmons could repeat the speech off by heart, knowing his own faults inside and out, watching the veins pop out of his head and his jaw tilt, rabid like an animalistic rage.

He doesn’t leave marks on these Fridays, but the words always sear deeper than others. _Your mother didn’t want you, and I was stuck with you. I raised you on my own. I gave you all this. How do you repay me?_

The words, on these days, rarely contain profanity, but the almost coherence of the argument compels Simmons to listen, even as his state clearly suggests to the contrary. Simmons stopped thinking there was any sense to it, but he hopes if he strains his ears this time, maybe it will end.

(It never does, and Simmons cries to sleep those nights).

 _I had a career, you know,_ he starts on the Monday evenings when his sitcom played, the lone light in the room emanating from the screen. _People respected me. Now I have you, and you’re not even worth jack-shit._

Simmons will cower at the door, inspecting the beige colour of the wall — he hates beige, he thinks — the stock photo framed pictures (none of them as a family, they never worked out well, he had six bruises after that) the incandescent bulb from the kitchen just creeping in. The details he focuses on help ground him to reality, to remember the words don’t _mean_ anything, Simmons, get yourself together. (It’s hard).

The peeling paint on the ceiling serves as a distraction, finding little worlds to inhabit when his seems shattered. He watches the spittle fly through the air, just reaching the television screen and leaving miniscule marks. He has to clean that tomorrow, he thinks.

Each routine, each argument, he commits to memory and _remembers,_ this is how you stop him from hitting you, this is where it hurts, this is how you make him quiet. Simmons feels powerful, even, knowing he’s beginning to win at the game his father has dominated for so long. It’s too bad it doesn’t last, as the gashes on his ribs tell him in the bathroom.

One evening, it’s 11:13pm, and two hours ago he’d suffered a fatal reminder of his incapability, his failure as the one son. He’s been reminded in marks across his back and stomach, the red of impact now blooming with bruises. In the mirror he really looks, is he as much of a failure as his father makes him out to be? Yes. Yes, he is, he has to be, otherwise this evidence wouldn’t be here, he wouldn’t _have_ to look in the mirror to wonder.

He gulps and tries to live with it, the crushing sense of purpose and the inability to use it. He can’t breathe, most days, as the strategies he once employed were backfiring and he was bleeding, now, he had never bled before. The words aimed at him felt like cuts, wounds deep, but never had they brought out the pungent life within his body like this.

Every now and then, he comes close to giving up.

He doesn’t, though, because there’s a small spark, very small, but calling out to him. _Hold on._ That spark guides him, as he watches the slow trickle of blood down his ribcage. _You can do this. When you’re 18, you’re out, you’re of out here and you’re_ gone.

When he’s 17, the futility of a 15 year old long gone and the new-found independence of 16 retired, he’s tired. Very, very tired of the reminders that have become daily. Little notes on the fridge – passive aggression to remind him who’s in charge, who made you remember every-fucking-time you went for a shower who knew how to disassemble you.

Simmons, in careless blunder, swears back at his father and blocks hits. He might be pale, he might be just five foot ten, his arms might be twigs but that spark _tells_ him to just _try._

He likes to think it makes a difference.

That Thursday he goes to the emergency ward, claiming an accident.

He stays in there for four days, with a disapproving father of his ‘teenage antics,’ and a laughing nurse, chastising him for his recklessness. He thinks, how could they not notice? How could they not tell?

There is no answer, for Simmons, as so far his life had been questions, questions, questions: every one he knew intimately, the kind that followed his mind to sleep and disturbed his subconscious. Richard Simmons didn’t know rest, he knew of unfulfilled duty and emptiness. He acquainted himself intimately with these feelings, becoming almost comfortable with it. (He likes to convince himself of these things).

When he’s 18, his father looks at him. Simmons raises his chin. I’m going, and you can’t stop me this time.

 _Piece of shit,_ he’ll call after Simmons as he tries to escape, here’s his chance, go, you can do this, the spark is there chanting. _Knew you were fucking like this, knew you’d run away._ He tries to send Simmons off with a going-away present, a sweet kiss on his cheek. The brutal scars on his ribs remember it will be the kiss of death, this time.

When he’s on the Pelican, he knows he’s not the sort that will get his revenge. Just an obituary and a grave he’ll never visit. It’s the best he can get, after all.

Meeting a man like Sarge for a commanding officer was intimidating, to say in the least. The calendar in his room was bright white against the varying greys, and furtively he wondered if maybe because it’s Friday, Sarge will yell and curse and blame him for the Covenant.

He doesn’t. Sarge is the opposite of his father in every way, were he to begin to make comparisons (he did, every conversation, every remark, every raised voice).

His CO is nuts, that’s for sure, spewing words about killing the enemy and those “dirty Blues,” but the words flow right over Simmons’ head, as he realises they aren’t directed him anymore. They’re harmless, no sharp edges, words the Blues probably don’t even care about. The soldiers in the canyon seem careless in their demeanour, reminding him of the spark that had his ribs bled but his spirit fighting on a little longer.

When he and Sarge sat in the monotone kitchen, at the shaky table, he feels uncomfortable, remembering the shaking legs and thumps. Sarge will just look up merrily, with his greying hair, and comment on how bright the sun had been today, and those damn Blues weren’t dead yet. He’d talk about his previous experience in warfare, the lieutenants he had under him before Simmons, the places he’d been.

Simmons wanted to cry, because his father never mentioned anything as mundane as the weather in a place like Blood Gulch, where the sun never sets. Sarge wondered why he behaved the way he did, but didn’t mind the antics Simmons went to please him. He figured he was a good soldier (until he heard “dad,” slip out one day, and he hid his expression behind his visor that day, and went on as normal; polishing his shotgun later, he started putting puzzle pieces together).

He could be odd, sometimes, particularly Fridays when their HUD’s would make them aware of the transition. Just a little bit more antsy, on his feet, more venomous about the Blues and supportive of bloodthirsty plans, cocking his gun at the ready on command.

Sarge wondered if there was something more to what Simmons let on, but he didn’t question it.

When Grif came – goddamn dirtbag – he was the exact opposite of Simmons in every way. Lazy, slacked off, munched on nibblies in the kitchen and held his position against Sarge.

Simmons couldn’t believe the way he acted, as the behaviour was so foreign and _alien_ to him, the best way he knew how to react was anger. He could still see the scars.

Grif would sometimes look like he knew too much, like when he looks at Dick he could see his story laid bare and like he _knew,_ when he walked into the showers, where those marks came from. They weren’t battle marks. With piercing eyes Simmons had only seen on the Hawai’ian before, he’d raise his dark blonde eyebrow when the ginger would abruptly cut off the water and toddle out without a word. Simmons didn’t feel naked _physically,_ even though he was, he could feel Grif reading him. An effort that had never been gifted to him, a thirst he’d never recognised. Once it started, it couldn’t stop. He’d let his desire to please Sarge known, but now he wanted _Grif_ to figure him out.

He didn’t like him, but maybe, _maybe (_ maybe this supposition would prove him right, lead him the _right_ way), this person could figure him out. Tell him maybe his aunt wasn’t like him, really, that his father abused him (a term he’d never used, but a part of himself encouraged him to do so), but Dexter Grif could verbally assault him and leave him whole. Allowing Simmons to fight back just as much, bite his skin just as hard and remind _him_ of duty.

Sarge didn’t like Grif (understatement of the fucking year), but with what they took in pride Simmons learnt more, between crushing failure and what Sarge described as crushing failure, and what his father described.

The tanned skin mocked him, reminding him of the words his father screamed at him. “You know, kissass, you can stop fucking staring at my skin all the time,” he’d said, in his careless manner that somehow conveyed a sense of _listen to me_ , with his arms behind in head and bare body laid out.

“I’m not, shut the fuck up,” Simmons sheepishly replied, looking away at the walls that weren’t a sickly beige, the ceiling not crackling.

“I’m fuckin’ Hawai’ian, what do you expect of me? Fuck.” Grif snorted, passing a glance over to the white boy, staring off into space. “The fuck you thinkin’ about?”

“Where I used to live.” He could still distinctly smell the house, the scent of cigarettes and tomato sauce. Previous meals still on the bench for him to clean up. Melted cheese, forgotten takeaway. He’d sigh, come in and forget his bag, working on what he’d need to complete before 4:47pm. He had time. Breathe.

“Simmons?” he slowly slid up, inspecting the glazed look that signalled his lack of presence – it’d become recurring, suddenly overcoming him some days in the evenings. “ _Simmons?”_ He slumped over to shake the shoulders of the man before him.

He flinched, coming back to that moment, kicking against Grif. “No, please, _stop,_ I didn’t _ask_ for this,” he began to shrill, clasping his ears.

“Hey, whoa, hey, I’m not doin’ anything, the fuck?” With a step backwards, a quick survey revealed Simmons wasn’t talking to him. “Simmons! Get the fuck back here. Look, Blood Gulch. Not anywhere else. Sun never sets and all that poetic shit.”

The rapid breathing and shaking began to slow down, upon hearing Grif’s voice, and the suspension of reality began to cease, when he placed his hands on the standard bedding and noticed the dim amber light. He was _here,_ not _there,_ he was _here._ There was no murmur of a forgotten television and blood down the drain.

“Umm, nothing happened there,” Simmons defended, trying to release himself from the room quickly. “Bathroom!” His voice squeaked, with an intense skip in pitch and gentle shut of the door behind him.

Grif didn’t care for much – that was his motto, his tagline, that was how he lived – but there were two things that made him clench his chest and worry. His sister, and one Dick Simmons.

He started putting bits together, more alike with Sarge than he’d care to admit or find out.

The bed invited him back, and resting on it his mind returned to questions. Simmons was full of questions but left before he could give you an answer, commanding you to do things but never telling you why (or never giving a good enough reason, a nap is fucking better than a lap).

Dexter Grif had never been in want of an answer as much as the enigmatic Dick Simmons.

He wasn’t a mystery novel, no, Grif doesn’t _do_ that, but it was goddamn something out of this canyon. The pale ginger kid with little scars on his back that didn’t look like Simmons’ hand would reach that far, that didn’t look like rocks had pierced him there. It was what the third option was that haunted him.

In bed, Grif, on days where he had good naps and couldn’t sleep at ‘night’, listened to Simmons’ sleep-talk, always combinations of “no, please, stop, it’s my fault, I know,” and Grif would be lying if it didn’t make him feel something for Simmons.

When they had their armour off, and Simmons would just _look_ at him – right into his soul, he swore – and Simmons would ask what home was like for him. Casually gesturing with a spoon, pointing out the grits still hanging to his upper lip, the bed hair that needs brushing (“And I’m _not_ doing that for you today, Grif!”)

“No parents, me and my sister. Had a little house, government funded. Tried to work. Drafted,” Grif would say nonchalantly, shrugging. “That’s my life story, right up until now.”

Simmons looked taken aback, considering his bowl with sternness, pouting his lips. “What about you?” the man with shaggy hair would ask.

“A father, you know, normal thing. Casual. A little house, with walls and… a ceiling,” he’d finally edge out, staring at his fingernails. Grif raises an eyebrow – his signature _Simmons, you’re talking out of your ass_ movement – and Simmons blushes furiously, knowing Grif _knew_ what the fuck is up. At least, _something_ is up.

“Oh, yeah, sounds like a great house. A fucking _ceiling!”_ he exclaims sarcastically, waving his arms around in surprise. “No shit, tell me more, Simmons. Did you have doors too, or were they too extravagant?”

“Shut the fuck up, _Dexter,_ like you can talk,” he mutters in defence, lightly pushing his chair away without a noise and collecting their plates silently.

“Oh, I can, because at least I mention more than a father.” Grif stays seated, curiously watching Simmons walk with an air of vulnerability. The sign on his back clearly stated _don’t go there._ Grif could read him like a book, for how long they’d been together in Blood Gulch, only just now broaching the subject of ‘before all this’.

Grif’s suspicions were more correct than he’d expected. The minute ‘father’ was mentioned, he clammed up and froze, refusing all interaction and furiously finished the few dishes they had with a vengeance.

He’ll just have to wait. They’ve got a long time, anyway, the endless day rolling out before them.

\---

They’re about to be executed. Simmons wants to tell him something important – he can sense it, he stops it. He wants their last moment to be _them,_ not awkward heart-to-hearts that left them both realising they didn’t have enough to time to _be_ that. To finally understand Dick Simmons, that would be something he’d want years to be able to get.

He didn’t want a moment before a gun and the final words being not enough – the words that signalled, well, _that was our future, you know. This was_ me, _and I wanted you to know._

Their last minutes together should be bickering and bantering – how, if Grif had his (secret) way, is how it would be forever. Until their last breath.

(This would have been true, were it not for Simmons’ replacement-father saving the fucking day in all his glorifying denial of Grif).

It’s not bad, really. He gets more time to try and crack the gaze of Simmons and finally edge an answer out. They come rarely – bits and pieces, accidentally rolling out like he’d dropped a basket full of secrets.

(“I’d come home from school, you know, and I’d have an hour and a half of cleaning. Leftovers everywhere! You should do something, Grif!”He’d covered his mouth after that and run away, leaving Grif lying on the bed, wondering at what was so scandalous about admitting that.

“The stench of vodka was always pungent in the lounge room. You’re fucking lucky there’s no alcohol here, or I’d make sure you never got any!” Same reaction as last. Grif found the quick exits relaxing, relishing in the fact he didn’t have to work. He just didn’t find the trauma that appeared on Simmons' face very nice.

“I have these marks on my back because I tried standing up. I learnt not to a long time ago.” Simmons doesn’t run, he just turns over and sighs quietly in his bed. Grif _swears_ his chest doesn’t constrict, but Kaikaina would punch him in the arm and call him a ‘fucking liar, Dex, a fucking liar.’)

Grif will _swear_ to himself, that when they’re separated and he’s in the fucking desert with _Sarge_ and _Caboose_ of all fucking people (seriously, worst luck in the entire fucking world: megalomaniac out to kill him, fuckwit out to kill his teammates, ctrl f+u), he doesn’t worry for Simmons. Who’ll make sure that he can win an argument (or let him think so), who’ll pretend not to worry (he does), who’ll call him out on his bullshit (self-deprecating remarks included). Definitely does not happen.

Simmons will _swear_ to himself, when they’re separated and the Meta is fucking holding him hostage and Agent Washington is playing along, he absolutely _does not_ wish for Grif to tell him to get his shit together. Who’ll make sure the beige walls aren’t pressing against his sides (Grif tells them they’re fucking in space, get back here, asshole), who’ll remind him he’s a fucking nerd (he is, but Simmons likes the label – well, no he doesn’t but), who’ll nudge him in the shoulder and whisper the stupidest fucking shit he’s ever heard. Definitely does not happen.

Goddamn, when that warthog comes charging through the wall? Jesus fucking shit, Simmons has never cursed inwardly that much in his entire life. _Elated,_ and then hanging to the back of a fucking warthog. He just remembers it’s Grif driving (should he be worried or trusting the driver? He opts for the latter, death will greet him otherwise).

Begrudgingly, he’ll admit they’re a good team. Grif holds him together like the glue he needed in year one, like the bandages he needed when he was 13, like the doctor that should have helped him when he was 17. Like the mother he needed, or the aunt that he dreamt up. The skills he needed to protect himself.

Grif isn’t even a protective type of person, really, Grif doesn’t act like he cares.

It’s in the little ways, the subtle ways, the nudges. Grounding of reality. “Hey, nerd, I don’t fucking care.” Brutal honesty. He doesn’t hear a lie from Grif except to-do with naps and avoiding duty.

Moments where Grif, even through his visor, looks like he could be giggling over something really silly, and he’ll just give the right amount of sentences to make Simmons laugh uncontrollably at Grif because he’s _so dumb_ and he’s Dexter Grif. King of the Fucking Lame (Grif will then add if he’s the king, then Simmons is his fucking queen, kiss-ass).

Simmons will pout in return and claim he has his own kingdom, thank you. “Yeah, King of the Fucking Nerds. Loser. Mine’s better.”

“ _My_ kingdom has maths and chess, asshole,” Simmons says with a gruff edge, lightly tapping Grif’s orange armour.

“Yeah, well, _my_ kingdom has so many better jokes. And blackjack and hookers.”

Simmons rolls his eyes. Possibly the last thing they should be talking about is this, when they’re on their way to find Church.

“Can it, dirtbag,” Sarge attempts to lull the conversation, but Grif is still snickering uncontrollably and claims it’s Simmons fault for almost crashing.

(They don’t have a smooth landing anyway).

All right, near-death circumstances aside and almost-admitting _maybe_ Grif is his rock, his glue, he can’t fucking bear losing him. Not now, not after…

Fuck, fucking fuck, off the cliff, right past the jagged lines on Simmons’ back and his heart.

He almost has a heart attack when he comes back up. Well, a second one. He thinks of the bulging veins in his father’s forehead. For possibly the first time in his life, he forgets that – somehow, _somehow,_ for the life of him he can’t figure out how the crushing memory of his father is negated – because Grif is alive.

(He has a bit of an epiphany. Grif isn’t _the_ glue, he’s the person who taught him how to use the paste. He grabbed his hands, told him how to use them, and left him with instructions. He can’t lose somebody like that).

Somebody patient enough, despite the necessity of their interaction for their survival, somebody patient enough who sometimes stayed up at night and asked him the questions. Gestured over his breakfast, _Simmons, the fuck?_ They rarely need words. If they have their helmets off, they are silent.

It all floods him, after the morning back from that near-death and fucking _victory_ against the Meta, that he realises how close – how close he was to losing this not-so-graceful, foul-mouthed, lazy-ass fucking _friend_ of his. (No, not friend, **lifeline,** he’ll amend inwardly).

By this stage, he’s past the point of caring. He’ll bend over for Grif, shout his name because he’s a fuck annoying shit, but he’ll call him his goddamn life mate. There’s no way he’d be okay without him, whether Simmons can function on his own now. He knows the person that shakes him back into reality when bits come back – it’s not beige walls anymore, it’s minutes and times that scare him, tiny scars he still finds, the odd bend of his pinky.

In casual moments, when they’re at Valhalla, Grif will just _look_ at Simmons, and he’ll _look_ back, and he swears they can read each other’s minds.

_Grif, you’re so fucking lazy, get the fuck up._

_Simmons,_ you’re _fucking commanding. I do what I want. Haven’t you learnt this?_

The maroon soldier will sigh, resting on his right leg. Their helmets are discarded, allowing their means of conversation they’d grown attached to.

_Hey, dickhead, chill. We’re okay._

He blows out a deep breath, trying to still his sense of looming disaster.

_Simmons, I’m here. We’re fucking here, kiss-ass. We’re fine._

He’ll put his hand out for Grif to take – he does, with the way it’s offered, tentatively – and he doesn’t let go and squeezes it gently.

And when they’re after the Director, their jokes about boners are still everyday, they are still the same.

And when Sarge is captured, Wash is captured, Donut is captured, they’re still together. Despite Locus up against them, they weren’t separated. Seemingly attached to each other, their bond unbroken and strong and piecing them together, working as a cohesive unit.

In their bunker, the place they’ve been allocated with the Rebels, Simmons will come in thinking of beige walls, and it’s not _him,_ it’s Sarge trapped.

Griff will come up, strip them of their armour, hold both his hands and squeeze tightly.

 _I’m here. We’re here._ That same expression.

Simmons breathes deeply. The walls are there, but this time, he’ll break them down too.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> so  
> yeah  
> I really appreciate comments because they let me know a) what you like b) dislike c) how it made you feel d) let me know if dick simmons makes your heart strings tug ヽ(゜∇゜)ノ


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